Unmasked Heart: A Regency Romance (Regency Romance: Challenge of the Soul Book 1)

by Vanessa Riley

  Recognition of his talents from a condemned man wasn't the acclaim he sought. Nor was being saddled with another man's burden. Barrington already bore enough. Wiping at his forehead, he pivoted toward the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Smith. Thank you for wasting my time."

  "The abductor took a woman the night of June 10th. No, the 11th, 1813." Almost gagging on his lies, Smith raised his voice higher. "He killed her that night, dumped the body in a ditch. There's got to be a record of her murder. I'm telling you the truth."

  A date? That could be checked.

  "Find him. Before he gets to my brother, too. He won't be satisfied with just me hanging."

  The pleading, the confession warbling Smith's voice could not be ignored. Barrington eased his fingers from the bars and rotated to the prisoner. "How can you be so certain of the date?"

  "I was there. I drove the carriage. Check the records. You'll see. A woman's body was found on the next morning on the route from London."

  "Where were you headed?"

  "South. I don't know where. I know he didn't want to kill her there. He had other plans. He—"

  Barrington sliced the damp air with his hand. The motion silenced Smith as if he'd struck his windpipe. The perversion never needed to be mentioned outside of the courts. All had heard the rumors of the shameless treatment of the Dark Walk's victims. Were the horrid tales true?

  He rubbed at the back of his neck and addressed the witness, perhaps the only one to these crimes. "So your testimony is that you contacted the Dark Walk Abductor. How did you do it?"

  "I left a message with the barkeep near the docks asking for help, a little money to get on my feet. That's how we always contacted each other. He knows I have a brother. My brother and his wife will be targets."

  Could Smith be telling the truth? And if he was, did that mean the villain still lived and had the influence to get to Smith, to erect this conviction?

  "Mr. Norton, you're married. My brother has a wife, one with a child on the way. I'll die for them tomorrow."

  Barrington folded his arms and leaned against the bars, picturing his own wife and child on the way. She probably lit candles in every room she paced awaiting his return. A wave of protection, desire and caution encircled his chest pressing until a tired sigh sneaked out.

  "Go after the real villain, Mr. Norton. My brother and his wife are happy, with a baby to come. They are innocent. You're married. Are you happy?"

  Happy marriage? Scratching the light scruff of new growth on his jaw, Barrington narrowed his thoughts to his wedding trip and the last three months, the good times in his five-year marriage to Amora. "It's pleasant to find someone whom you can trust, someone who fusses over your eating, someone who ensures the bedchamber is warm enough so your hip doesn't ache." Or who calmed his spirit before a big trial. "You've given me much to think about."

  He pivoted again and tapped the bar for the guard.

  "Mr. Norton, would you mind waiting a little longer? The pages you left talked about repentance. I'd like to know a little more about that."

  In for a pound. If he left now, by the time he made it to Mayfair, Amora would be asleep. Oh Lord, let her not have one of her nightmares, not without him being there to comfort her.

  Barrington swiped at his brow. Perhaps he could get Smith to admit to more details about the killer for whom he claimed to work. After tomorrow, there wouldn't be another chance to interrogate him.

  Amora drummed her fingers against the tufted seat of Miss Miller's carriage. It was dark, stuffy, and reeked of chrysanthemums.

  Cynthia had lied to Barrington, saying she'd get Amora straight to Mayfair. Once Barrington left, the tart spent her time thronged by gentlemen, tipsy in compliments on her singing. Trollop.

  Tired and a little nauseous with pressure building below her bosom, she left the woman parked at the threshold of the grand portico. Cynthia stood there, flitting her fan at her audience of men. Maybe she enjoyed waylaying Amora. With all the bucks vying for the vixen, she'd never quit.

  Since Barrington worked and Cynthia was being Cynthia, Amora might as well sit back and prepare for her lay-in, the birthing of her child here in chrysanthemum hades.

  Another ten or fifteen minutes in the dark sent a wince to Amora's lips. Maybe she could wave at Cynthia to hurry her. Turning to the window, she spied Mr. Charleton. Heart thumping, then bumping to a stop, Amora ducked down, tucking her arms over her head. Did he see her? No no no. He couldn't see her.

  She pushed foul air into her lungs, and forced her heart to beat again. A little faster than dead, but not quite a quiet rhythm. If that man knew she was alone, he'd want to converse about the past. Things that should be forgotten. He needed to march away and take the memories too.

  Fidgeting, she peeked in time to see the gentleman retreat into the party. Good. No confrontations, no fanning of gossip's flames. No infernos tonight.

  The light disappeared as the moon dipped behind the clouds, making everything darker. Could she survive another hour in this small space?

  Perhaps she could ask the footman for a lantern. Barrington always read, so riding with him, she never had to beg...beg for light. Beg.

  A tremor rippled over her body. She gripped her arms about her to try to stop the shivers. Having an episode with Cynthia wouldn't bode well.

  Filling her lungs, Amora wiped her brow. After counting twenty-three stars and forty-one nail heads, the carriage door finally opened.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Norton...Amora. My admirers can't get enough."

  Cynthia slithered inside, taking the seat opposite her. She tucked her form fitting train against her long legs, and adjusted her red satin cape. "Hope you were comfortable. After all, what is a songstress to do?"

  There were a number of things, Amora could list: stay away from Barrington, stop using her dead brother's memory to twist her husband into knots. Those pronouncements wouldn't be received well, so she made her tone pleasant. "I'm happy for you. You're the rage of London."

  The carriage rocked and swayed forward. Hopefully, they'd take the short path back to Mayfair, about twenty minutes of finger counting. With the longer way, it would be difficult to think of more compliments for this friend of Barrington's.

  "I have done well with the cards I've been dealt. But I'd give it all away for the love of a good man like…oh, I don't know. Someone like Mr. Norton."

  One, two, three. She tried to ignore the viper's venom, but it stung her chest to imagine Cynthia with Barrington. Amora smoothed her pinkie over the stitches of her shawl's hem. She must remain even-tempered, bland like the simple cloth shrouding her shoulders. "The weather is nice. Not too hot or cold."

  "Is that all you have to say? We're alone. You could show off your wit. Well, you used to be witty."

  No doubt, if Amora lost her temper, Cynthia would tell Barrington, ending the newly found peace of the Norton marriage. Nothing was worth that.

  "Well, I can be civil too. The weather is delightful. See we can convey to Mr. Norton our nice conversation. That should please him. Don't you want to please him?"

  This woman must possess something that made Barrington blind to Cynthia's faults. But what?

  Truthfully, Amora would love for Barrington to miss her flaws, just like he missed the colors red and green.

  Tired of careful speech, she grimaced. "You want something, Miss Miller, other than my husband, or you would be following him to the prison, offering to hold his hand as he walked the corridors."

  Cynthia laughed. "You are a sly one. I need Barrington to represent someone dear to me, but I know he won't if he thinks it will upset you."

  "My husband attends clients, with or without my approval." Amora bit her lip. She couldn't alert the singer to any marital difficulties.

  "You can brag a little. You have more power over him than you think. No, it's going to take your urging to get Barrington to agree."

  "Why would I help? You make veiled threats at taking my husband. Do you think I'm a
fool?"

  Cynthia slipped closer, planting her painted face directly in front of her. "I'm not the only one who'd love to borrow him, even for just a little while. His father was quite the man about town, and most men of Barrington's stature have mistresses. Usually a trinket or two keeps the wives happy."

  A trinket? Or a bauble, like a pearl necklace. An ache stabbed her middle. She bit back the pain. The jade couldn't know her words cut deep.

  With a lift of her chin, Amora leveled her shoulders. She hid her balled fists in the folds of her shawl. "Mr. Norton is not most men. He's quite honorable."

  "He is a dear, but all males have limits. They can be driven into willing arms." She snatched a fan out of her reticule and whipped it about in the stale air. "Very willing arms."

  There was no doubt, no misunderstanding of her words. Cynthia intended to seduce Barrington.

  "Yet, I could consider leaving him alone."

  Amora cut her gaze to the treacherous jade. "What?"

  "I need you to let him take my case. It's life or death for my family. I wouldn't be here trying to seek this favor, humbling myself before you, if it weren't grim."

  "If it's such, Mr. Norton will make the right decision."

  "Not if working so closely with me, day and night, will upset you. Don't play the helpless wife. You are a force to be reckoned with, though Barrington says you don't paint any more or play the pianoforte. Afraid my talents will outshine yours, so you abandon the competition?"

  Cynthia and Barrington discussed her? A lump formed in her throat. She forced herself to swallow.

  "Will you support me?" The tart leaned forward. An errant curl flopped from her carefully coiffed bun.

  A glimpse of streetlight exposed her narrowing emerald eyes and thinned lips. "You must agree."

  "I can't tell him what to do."

  "What if I promise never to tell of your little indiscretion?"

  Amora pivoted to the window. She didn't want to think of that time, but the memories returned almost every night. More so, when Barrington wasn't home. A shudder rippled through her. Would she ever be free of them?

  Cynthia gripped Amora's arm. "Look at me."

  The woman's silhouette seemed similar to her lost cellmate's, but that girl was kind. No cruelness in her, that precious soul.

  "I know you didn't tell him of your disappearance? So, he married a liar." Cynthia giggled. The notes weren't merry, but harsh and threatening. She tightened her hold.

  The pressure hurt, as did the pain in Amora's abdomen. She snatched her hand free. "Stop this now. You wouldn't want Mr. Norton to know of this unsightly nature."

  Cynthia eased back onto her seat. Her fingers flicked at the bunches of fabric crowding her feet. "Barrington knows everything, everything about me. He was so caring about my child out of wedlock. If I'd been able to keep her, he'd treat the lass as if she were his."

  Amora closed her eyes. Was that a hint? No, Barrington would have told her, if he and the singer... Her mind wouldn't complete the sentence. "Mr. Norton loves children. He'll never condemn a child for the mother's failings."

  A hiss filled the dim cabin. "When he learns of your failing, we'll see if you're still so smug. We know how he hates liars, and you wed without disclosure. No man wants to be married in darkness."

  The blood in Amora's veins froze. She chiseled free her gaze and peered through the glass. She spied the sign, Conduit Street. That was one block from the townhouse. She tapped on the roof of the carriage. With the gas street lamps burning, she could run and be on their Mayfair doorsteps within minutes. "Out! I want out!"

  Her shriek did the trick. The carriage stopped. A footman appeared and opened the door. Amora stood and extended her hand to be let down.

  "Oh, no, Mrs. Norton. I told Barrington I'd take you home. I'm not going to be accused of dropping you anywhere but your house."

  "I'll take my chances. Besides, he'll forgive you." Amora leapt out of the carriage and wrapped her shawl tight about her trembling limbs.

  "Suit yourself." The door slammed shut and the carriage moved away at a fast clip.

  Even if she wanted to change her mind, it was too late. The carriage and horses disappeared at the end of the street. Amora filled her lungs with the chilly air. Staring at the lit street lamps, she paced toward the townhome.

  The shuffle of her satin slippers echoed. The darkness of the night crowded her, squeezing her lungs, bringing heavy breath after heavy breath pouring out of her mouth.

  Shaking, she gripped her tummy. "One, two, three." Counting aloud usually slowed her thoughts, but not tonight. Images of a darkened cellar with roots pushing through the floor crowded her head. The noise of falling brick clogged her ears. A sour taste rose from her stomach, drying her tongue.

  If she blinked, she could be lost again, waiting in the dank prison, listening for the horrid footsteps of her abductor.

  The shadows of trees swept across her path.

  Her heart slammed against her chest.

  Something was coming for her.

  Even in London, she couldn't hide.

  By the time she stumbled onto Mayfair's first step, the stabbing ache in her abdomen cut through her every few seconds. She couldn't stop shivering.

  Pounding on the door, she sank to her knees.

  It opened. Mrs. Gretling stood in the threshold bundled in a thick woolen robe holding a candle. "Mrs. Norton, are you alright?"

  She fell against her housekeeper. The world grew darker, wrapping Amora in pure blackness.

  With each weighted step, Barrington dragged into his carriage. His heart hung heavy, filled with hopeless burdens. The execution had lasted ten minutes. Ten whole minutes.

  One to line up the men on the platform. A couple more to slip white hoods over Smith and the others. Another two to hear the building cheers of the wretched crowd. Then less than thirty seconds to feel the reverberation of the drop of the platform. Thud, Thud.

  Ten minutes, the difference between life and death.

  Barrington stretched out on the seat. The clip-clop of his horse team couldn't distract him from Smith's confession. Or the knowledge Barrington had been used to bring about Smith's death.

  The fellow was innocent of coining, but not of this Dark Walk Abductor business? The clear-eyed confession. The palm-sweat Smith kept wiping on his breeches as he recounted of his vile participation in acquiring victims. A man facing death wouldn't lie about such evil transactions, would he?

  Yet, one lie begat another. What words could be trusted from a liar's tongue.

  Barrington rubbed at his skull. He had a date and a crime to give to his solicitor. Beakes was good at finding details. He'd put him on it later today once he made amends to Amora. How mad could she be?

  The carriage stopped outside the jewelers. At well past ten in the morning, Bond Street typically hosted crowds of shoppers. Barrington didn't have the energy to face any of it and remained upon his seat with his eyes closed.

  Hopefully, his man-of-all-work was the first in line at the merchant. The silversmith should be finished with the rattle. A husband needed something to smooth any new thorns that might await him at home. One lesson he'd learned from watching his father drag in at all hours. A good distraction offered a chance at peace.

  The dainty bauble, no bigger than his thumb, etched with his and Amora's initials should distract her. She'd think of their child and forget how late he was.

  Maybe she'd realized that even if he weren't with her, she was very present in his thoughts. Oh, Lord, let her understand. A few months of happiness weren't enough.

  The door to the carriage opened. A refreshing breeze blew inside. "Sir."

  Barrington stretched and blinked at James.

  His man, dressed in a dark coat steeped in braided trim, poked his ruddy face inside. "Here, sir."

  "Thank you." Barrington took the velvet pouch. The smooth nape appeared gray, but it was probably emerald or red. How horrid not to experience all the shades of a rain
bow. On the balcony, Amora had said she wanted him to see her. Clothing was one thing, but she shouldn't have given up painting, something that had once brought her joy. He'd speak to her about that.

  Yet, his inability to detect certain hues didn't explain why she'd also abandoned the pianoforte. He adored music, and she was quite proficient before the war.

  "Mr. Norton, I took a peek inside. Just lovely."

  James's infectious grin filled his countenance. If not for the solemn night or the possibility of facing an angered wife, Barrington would smile too.

  "The missus should love it. Might do the trick. You won't have to lounge in your study."

  "Hope so. Get me home as quickly as possible."

  "Yes, but be at ease. One night isn't long enough to change the locks." His man shut the door and soon the carriage raced towards Mayfair.

  James was of a different race, different station in life, but no one understood Barrington's burdens better. Hopefully, his man was right about the locks, too.

  Running a hand against his hair, Barrington shoved on his top hat and tried to relax. Nothing could ease his soul. Since the onset of her pregnancy, he'd been very careful to be in by at least ten each evening.

  This should be a happy time for them both. His being absorbed in work always made her uneasy. Headaches, nightmares. He'd find her upset in her chambers, stewing as if she assumed something bad had happened.

  With a last tweak to his wilted cravat, he bounded from the carriage.

  "Good luck, sir." James tipped his tricorn hat and tugged the reins of the conveyance, hauling beasts and carriage toward the mews.

  Partially blinded by the glare of the bright sunlight, Barrington walked up the path and onto the portico. All the lights of the house were a glow. Amora had a penchant for burning candles, but this was a bit much. Why?

  He pressed on the door. It opened before he could settle his fob in the keyhole. Not locked?

  Mrs. Gretling pounded down the steps with a bucket of balled up sheets. "Oh, Mr. Norton! You're home. No one knew where to find you."

  Her tone sounded clipped. Their Scottish housekeeper was not shy with her opinions, but Amora knew where he was.